To the Mona Lisa of Da Vinci

David Park Barnitz

Anguish and Mourning are as gold to her;
She weareth Pain upon her as a gem,
And on her head Grief like a diadem;
And as with frankincense and tropic myrrh,
Her face is fragrant made with utter Woe;
And on her purple gorgeous garment's hem,
Madness and Death and all the ways of them
Emblazoned in strange caroussel show.

Within her delicate face are all things met,
And all the sad years and the dolourous days
Are but as jewels round her forehead set;
Add but a little glory to her face,
A little langour to her half-closed eyes,
That smile so strangely under the far skies.